Introduction

School is kind of shitty. You go to class and listen to what your professor lectures on. You go back and study the shit he or she talked about. Then you got tests. These fucking tests determine where you will be in a couple years, what your salary will be in a couple of years, and thus your standing in this fucking capitalistic society. Ahh fucking tests.

Yea so I had a fucking bad test that day. I didn’t really study so maybe I shouldn’t bitch about it but damn that was a fucking bad test. I felt shitty so I went to get some alcohol with some friends at a near by pub. Pubs are good. Usually.

So I was sitting there just sipping at my beer, watching the fucking Dodgers getting there asses handed to them by the Red Sox on TV. I don’t care much for baseball. My friends were nearby talking to some chicks from school. They were decent. But too bad they weren’t talking to me. Bitches sometimes come up to me but usually so they can get closer to my friends. Fuck them bitches and fuck them friends.

So as I was blankly staring at the TV I felt a tap on my shoulder. And I turned around. It wasn’t a fucking girl.

He was in a nice black dress shirt this time. His hair was less messier and he was wearing regular jeans.

“You saw me the other night didn’t you?”

I gave Him a puzzled look.

“Remember me? You saw me putting up those flyers.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. It was like 2 days ago right? Really late at night”
“Yeah. That’s me. My name is Roger Woo. Nice to meet you.”

He handed me a business card. It said Suicide Helper on top of it.
I took the card and looked at him. He gave me a friendly smile.

“I’m Chris Watake.”

I don’t know why I was talking to this nut head. Maybe I was drunk. I don’t even know. But this crazy bitch goes around at 2-3am in the morning taping flyers that offer assistance to emo fuckers with killing themselves. He was advertising murder. I took it as a joke.

“Those are pretty morbid flyers. What do you do with them? Is that number even real?”
“Oh you’ve been looking at them pretty closely haven’t you. You interested?”
I laughed.
“No no. Just wondering.”
He laughed. It sounded fake.
“Yea I’m serious. I help people kill themselves.”

I laughed. It was a fake laugh.

******

Later that day, I took a walk again to the street where I first met him. There were no flyers on the street lights. It's only been a few days. Where did they all go?

Encounter

People say that good things do not happen frequently, but bad things do. So I guess my encounter with this whole matter is probably considered a bad thing for me.

Three days after I saw that shitty piece of paper on my way back from a long ass walk with me and my cigarettes, I took another walk. This time I went about four blocks behind my apartment, maybe around 2-3 am in the morning?

I was taking this late ass walk because of a fucking dream. I saw a dream of that damned bitch in the well who comes out from the fucking TV to fucking scare the living shit out of her fucking victims. God damn it, I love horror movies but I hate it when they come out in my dreams. I like laughing at those little fuckers in the movies getting their asses whooped by a fucking psycho bitch, but god damn I would not like being them. If I were ever in that situation I’d cry and beg for my fucking nuts. Actually, I’d offer my nuts, my friends, even my fucking girlfriend if I had one. I’d give up anything for my life. Call me a pussy, see if I care. I don’t want to encounter any psycho bitch with long ass black hair that comes out from a fucking TV. I don’t mind dying from anything else. Just not that bitch.

Too bad this fucking walk didn’t really help me vent my fear of little girls in wells.

I was walking and I heard someone else walking behind me. God damn it. Why does someone else have to be taking a walk around 2-3am in the fucking morning? Was this person also fucking scared? What’s he scared of? Some serial killer with a fucking hockey mask? Or is he scared of some haunted doll who goes around with a fucking huge ass pair of scissors? Bitch, shut the fuck up. Alright, the doll is fucking terrifying, but that girl in the well is a shit loads more scarier. God damn it. Fucker sounds like he’s following me. Wait, it might be a girl. Ah fucking hell, if it’s a girl then it must be that fucking bitch from the well. Fuck the fucking well.

So I fucking turned around to get a good look at this probably unintentionally scary innocent pedestrian.

And It was Him. The guy who would change my life.

What I saw that day was an Asian dude about six feet tall in black jacket, zipped up all the way. He had jeans. Normal, not those skinny jeans, or baggy jeans. Just regular jeans. Nice regular jeans that don’t make your balls sweat too much. And Sandals. Shitty sandals. His hair was fucking messy as hell. Looked like he woke up from some messy sex with an ugly ass bitch (having sex with an ugly bitch, not only makes you feel like crap, but also makes you look like crap the next day; it totally ruins whatever self-respect you have left). He had a pile of papers about a quarter of an inch thick in his black-gloved hands.

The first thing he did wasn’t anything life changing. He saw me turn around and I guess he thought there was something behind him so he also turned around. Dumb bitch, you were the fucker causing my slight mental break down. He turns back around towards me, shrugs, and walks passed me. Doesn't make any eye contact. When he came across the street light about ten feet away from where I was standing, he grabbed some tape from inside his jacket. He grabbed one piece of paper and taped it on the pole. I stood their and lit a cigarette and continued staring at him tape up his papers up on the other electric poles on the same side of the street. As I saw him turn left on the corner three blocks down, I walked up to the first pole he taped his paper on. I some how guessed that it wasn’t one of those “Lost My Dog” notices.

The paper said:

SUICIDE HELPER
Do you feel like killing yourself?
Are you bored with life?
Do you wanna die?
Can't do it alone?

We'll help you!

Call this number
(xxx-xxx-9809)

Remember people die alone,
But you don't have to do it alone!

I recorded the number on my phone. I wondered if they have specific business hours.

Prologue?

I guess it all began on that day. Or should I even say began? When does something really start? Is it when something occurs? Is it when you accept the fact that you are involved? Well, if that's the case, then that means it didn't really begin that day, per se, but I guess that's when I noticed it.

I saw it on a lonely electric pole at the end of a cul de sac in quiet neighborhood near the college. It was a scroungy piece of shitty paper on the street light. I thought it was one of those "Lost My Dog" notices with a shitty picture of a dog. I sometimes see stray dogs and thats when I wish that I actually took my time putting the poor owner's number in my fucking phone. If I actually did find a stray dog, not only do I get the reward, but I can look like a true humanitarian. Although when it really comes down to it, I might not accept the money. By not accepting the money, I can make myself feel real good; real good about myself. I like that feeling of moral satisfaction you can give to yourself. If I were a fucking psychologist I'd call it something like a ethical masturbation. You know, you just do it make yourself feel good inside.

Anyways, enough about fucking masturbation. Back to the fucking paper. This shitty paper didn't have a fucking dog picture. It had no picture as a matter of fact. It said:

SUICIDE HELPER
Do you feel like killing yourself?
Are you bored with life?
Do you wanna die?
Can't do it alone?

We'll help you!

Call this number
(xxx-xxx-9809)

Remember people die alone!
You don't have to do it alone!

Isn't this shit illegal?